


Qin

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Red Cliff
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through music, through desire, Zhou Yu tries to understand Zhuge Liang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qin

For long months, Zhou Yu has let his qin sit idle. Though Xiao Qiao often asks him to play, he's unable to bring himself to touch the instrument. It seems symbolic of days of leisure, of a time of innocence. Music has become an indulgence, something to be listened to according to mood, but not directly experienced. The tunes that ring around his head have steady rhythms: marching feet, the stab of swords, the strike of arrows, the thump of his heartbeat. These are the things that are important, not the graceful curlicues of melody.

When the news comes that Zhuge Liang will visit Wu in search of an alliance, Zhou Yu knows certain steps in the dance will be inevitable. He prepares for the meeting with as much care as he would prepare for battle. He takes the qin from its sandalwood chest and sets it on the table in front of him. He studies its shape beneath the drapery of silk that hides it from his sight and then lays his hands on it.

Beneath the cloth, he feels the soul of the instrument resonate in silence. The strings roughen the underside of the silk as he strokes his fingers across them. He rests one hand on the bridge of the qin, the place that gives shape to sound, brings order to noise.

He removes the delicately patterned cover from his qin and studies the instrument with the care and attention of a connoisseur. He's heard the rumours. It's said that Zhuge Liang, gentleman farmer and learned recluse, dedicates his evenings to playing the qin. Everyone agrees his skill is comparable only to his humility.

Zhou Yu has never yet met a man who doesn't appreciate the chance to show off. In his experience, it's always been the most humble men who've craved the opportunity to flaunt their knowledge. He thinks Zhuge Liang will be the same. After all, though he is considered wise, Zhuge Liang is still young; and the young are prideful.

Zhou Yu likes to be able to match his guests, to play on their abilities and trap them in their own skill. This is the way he works on the battlefield. It's the way he works in everything. He plans a skirmish with Zhuge Liang, but one look at his qin and he knows he will be at a disadvantage. Over the quiet months, its strings have slackened. When he plucks an experimental chord, the instrument wails in protest.

A man would not go into battle with a broken sword. Zhou Yu spends a patient hour tuning the qin, but still it sounds lethargic. He shouldn't have left it so long.

Xiao Qiao kneels beside him, humming the true notes in her gentle voice as he tightens the knots on the silk strings. He can't quite match the sounds she makes, but knows if he plays boldly enough, it won't matter.

He reaches a decision. "Bring me your qin," he says to Xiao Qiao.

"Why?"

"Because this one is not in tune."

She smiles. "You wish to give him harmony."

"While providing a note of discord." Zhou Yu plucks a chord and listens to it fade. "How can he resist?"

* * * *

Zhuge Liang doesn't even try to resist. Throughout their meeting, his gaze is fixed on the qin placed before Zhou Yu. Their talk is empty, nothing more than pleasantries. It lacks the subtle undertones of two men attempting to uncover the truth about one another. Zhuge Liang is not trying to trick him with clever words; he's not trying to bring suggestion to bear on him, and neither is he testing Zhou Yu's strength of will. Zhuge Liang is as he seems: quiet, interested, calm.

A lesser man would have dismissed him as harmless, but Zhou Yu knows better. Not just because he's witnessed his guest get his hands dirty with the birthing of the foal, but because of the expression in Zhuge Liang's eyes when he looks at the qin. It's yearning, but it's controlled.

Plenty of men look upon things with desire, but the desire is either fractional, a quick moment of lust, or it's a desire fed by greed. Zhuge Liang displays neither of these traits. He looks at the qin as if it's a part of him, as if he's been separated from it for long years. He holds back his emotions and masks his feelings with polite conversation, all the time studying the lines of the qin.

Zhou Yu imagines there are no qin at Liu Bei's court. The warlord seems to be in a constant state of flux. He cannot believe it is a good environment for Zhuge Liang. A strategist might thrive on such a disturbed, unstable life, but at heart the young man is a farmer, and farmers need to tie themselves to the earth even if they allow their souls to soar free.

It has not escaped his attention that Zhuge Liang carries his hawk's wing fan with him everywhere he goes. Not used for comfort or even for pretension, it appears to serve the very purpose Zhuge Liang claimed for it: to calm his anxieties. Yet when he knelt in Zhou Yu's study, Zhuge Liang set aside his fan.

Zhou Yu waits until Lu Su blunders in with a remark about the alliance before he signals for the second qin to be brought forward. Zhuge Liang looks softly astonished as the instrument is settled in front of him.

"I hear you have some skill with music," Zhou Yu remarks.

"A little. I am not a master."

"I have heard differently."

Zhuge Liang gives him a smile, pleased and almost shy. His hands span the strings and he coaxes a ripple of sound from the instrument. He tests the qin, assessing its range and its sweetness of tone. He manages to turn this perfunctory examination into a simple melody.

Zhou Yu is caught by the change in his guest. In those few moments, the truth of Zhuge Liang is suddenly revealed. He is not as complicated as Zhou Yu feared, but this only makes him more complex. Men who hide their nature often forget their own reality, but men who can divide themselves and inhabit more than one nature are dangerous to others as well as to themselves.

He will need to watch Zhuge Liang carefully.

Zhou Yu reminds himself to be bold. He bends over his qin and strikes a series of opening notes, overpowering the gentle harmonies of Zhuge Liang.

* * * *

As the days wear into weeks, the men of Wu grow accustomed to Zhuge Liang but they never draw closer to him. Zhou Yu watches him balancing along the line that divides outsider from friend. Gossip has it that Zhuge Liang shuns friendship. Zhou Yu wonders instead if the strategist doesn't trust it, the farmer finds no worth in it, and the musician has no need of it. He wonders what the hidden, secretive heart of Zhuge Liang most wants. If they were not engaged in fighting this war, perhaps he would trouble himself to find out.

But if they were not engaged in fighting this war, Zhou Yu knows he wouldn't think of Zhuge Liang at all.

As he walks around the camp, he listens to the soldiers' comments. Like women, they have an opinion on everything. The threat of death makes men voluble. Even though they know they're outnumbered, even though their allies have abandoned them, they remain hopeful for victory.

"Our generals will defeat Cao Cao," says one. "Zhou Yu tricked him into killing his own admirals. Zhuge Liang tricked him into donating one hundred thousand arrows. If a war cannot be won by force, it must be won by cunning."

"Trickery is not a wise stratagem," an older man responds. "Trickery only works when the enemy is gullible. Cao Cao will not endure trickery for long."

The other soldiers shout him down. Zhou Yu listens in the shadows as the debate continues. Trickery has its limits, but it is still a useful strategy. The wise man will use everything he knows to gain an advantage, whether or not it is the right thing to do. Morals count for little in war; it's only afterwards that questions are asked and right reasserts itself.

"Zhuge Liang can control the weather," another man cries. "With such power on our side, our victory is assured!"

Zhou Yu almost smiles. Most of these men grew up on the land, yet to them the weather is something mysterious and chaotic. To be able to read the wind, to judge from clouds the outcome of an event three days' hence – this is magic, not common sense.

He listens to the men talk of Zhuge Liang and realises they admire him in the way they would admire a phoenix: with awe and confusion. Zhuge Liang's composure, his equanimity, are alien things. Soldiers understand confidence. They understand acceptance and fate. What they can't follow is Zhuge Liang's stillness.

This incomprehension isn't limited to the lower ranks.

"He must be a magician," Lu Su says one evening after Zhuge Liang has withdrawn from their circle. "His calm would put a priest to shame."

"Perhaps he has no soul." Gan Ning has never forgiven Zhuge Liang for his comment about the goose wing battle formation being old-fashioned. "Those who are without a soul seek to fill the empty space inside them. He is still and silent only because he draws noise and movement into him. He steals it from those around him. That's why he stayed here when Liu Bei left. He feeds on our conflict."

Silence creeps around the room. In the brazier, the flames leap.

"He has a soul," Sun Quan says softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

Gan Ning snorts. "He is a demon."

Zhou Yu notices the tension in Sun Quan and wonders if perhaps Gan Ning is right after all.

* * * *

Candlelight draws intimacy into the room. It caresses the polished body of the two qin, gleams along the strings of twined silk, and casts into relief the fine bones of Zhuge Liang's hands.

Zhou Yu watches from his side of the room. His fingers run through scales, the notes descending and ascending at random rather than shaping into a tune. It doesn't matter: he's not in the mood for music. Playing the qin has become a habit, an extension of his inner self. Just as swordplay exercises the body, the qin exercises the soul. Both forms exercise the mind. A quick wit is needed to master sword and qin; agility and boldness is required to deliver an appropriate response.

They've played the qin every night since the typhoid outbreak. Zhou Yu found it a comfort at first, a way of blocking the memory of the day. The music obliterated the screams of the dying, just as the incense curling around the room blots the memory of burning corpses. The taste on his tongue is of fragrant tea rather than the acrid choke of charred human flesh. Their music is civilised, less of a dialogue now and more a song of comfort.

Until tonight, Zhou Yu didn't realise how much he needed this comfort. He only notices it because tonight, Zhuge Liang's music has changed.

For weeks, Zhuge Liang has played variations and responses to tunes begun by Zhou Yu. Not content with classical pieces, Zhou Yu improvised, surrendering to the wildness trapped inside him. Through music, he expressed rage and anguish and boredom; and all the while, weaving around his emotions, echoing the melody and emphasising the rhythm, Zhuge Liang worked notes and phrases that somehow lifted Zhou Yu's spirits.

But tonight there's no supportive melody. Zhuge Liang plays without reference to Zhou Yu, his fingers unbearably fast on the strings, the qin crying beneath his hands. They move up and down the body, snap over the bridge, music pulled from the instrument with violence and tenderness. Harmony bleeds into discord, sharps into flats. One note, held long, shatters into a shiver of tremulous chords like raindrops scattered over jade.

Zhou Yu tries to keep up with him, tries to offer fresh directions when it seems like the tune is turning on itself. But Zhuge Liang frowns, bends low over the qin in a drift of pure white silk. He shuts out Zhou Yu, shuts out the world. He dips closer, his breath whispering over the strings, his lips forming unspoken words. He closes his eyes, playing in blindness, and the music becomes brilliant and terrifying.

A shiver goes through Zhou Yu. He's never seen a performance like this before, never heard music played with such heartbreaking conviction. He can almost believe Lu Su's opinion that Zhuge Liang is a magician, and again he wonders at Gan Ning's remark about soulless demons. A farmer is too earthbound to play like this; a scholar would be too inhibited. Zhou Yu silences his qin, folds his hands, and is content to watch Zhuge Liang fly.

Candlelight kisses the sheen of sweat on Zhuge Liang's forehead. His hair, so carefully parted and oiled, damps down with the power of the music, a few tendrils escaping the severe style. His concentration absolute, he seems oblivious to everything, caught up in the act of creation and thought.

Zhou Yu blinks, catching a glimpse of colour across the white strings. At first he thinks it's a shadow, but then he realises it's blood. Just a smudge, just a smear, but it's enough to bring him to his feet. He crosses the room and crouches in front of Zhuge Liang. "Stop."

He doesn't, or maybe he can't. Zhou Yu slams his hand across the strings to silence the qin. The music fights, strangles, and dies. "Stop."

Zhuge Liang looks up. His expression is dazed, his gaze turned so deep inward it's an obvious struggle for him to come back. His lips part, and he seems to remember how to breathe again.

Silently, Zhou Yu grips Zhuge Liang's wrist. He turns his hand palm upwards, and together they study the delicate ooze of blood from the tip of his middle finger. The callous, formed over years playing the qin, has split. Zhou Yu knows it will hurt. He has rough skin from handling a sword every day. If he doesn't practice, his hands become soft and the next time he picks up a weapon, his skin blisters. He has calluses worn to the shape of his sword; doubtless Zhuge Liang's retain the shape of a qin's strings.

"Too much of anything is bad for you."

Zhuge Liang meets his gaze. "It's nothing."

His placid calm irritates Zhou Yu. He wonders what would make Zhuge Liang lose control. A warrior must be ready to take action; a farmer must be endlessly patient. Their opposite natures have always worked so well before, but now Zhou Yu wants an end to it. He will be bold again, and reclaim the lead in this strange dance.

Zhou Yu lifts Zhuge Liang's hand to his mouth. He holds his gaze and licks the droplet of blood from his finger. The taste rolls across his tongue. It's surprisingly sweet. Zhou Yu does it again, this time closing his lips around the fingertip. He traces the shape of the callous with the point of his tongue, exploring the pad of Zhuge Liang's finger. He sucks, drawing a spurt of fresh blood as he teases the edge of the injury. He swallows slowly.

Zhuge Liang's eyes widen. His breath catches and releases, almost a sigh, almost a moan, but he's too controlled to succumb to either. His hand flutters in Zhou Yu's grasp and he sways forward. His free hand gropes at the side of the qin, searching for his hawk's wing fan.

Zhou Yu moves around the side of the qin, blocking Zhuge Liang from reaching the fan. He feels the delicate imprint of the long feathers beneath his knees even through the triple layers of silk he wears. Careful not to break the flights, he eases away from the fan but keeps it concealed underneath the spill of his grey robes.

A tremor of panic passes over Zhuge Liang's face before his expression smoothes out into acceptance. Zhou Yu fancies he can still see caution behind his eyes.

"In every decision there is a choice," Zhou Yu says. "When Liu Bei left, you stayed. It was your choice. I did not ask why. When Xiao Qiao went to Cao Cao, it was her choice. I did not ask why."

"You know why she went." Zhuge Liang's voice is husky, as if the words sear his throat. "You know why I stayed."

Zhou Yu smiles. Guarding himself, he drops his gaze for a moment and twines his fingers through Zhuge Liang's. "You stayed because you fear being alone." He looks up, the smile fading. "Am I right?"

"Perhaps."

Zhuge Liang's hand is steady now within his grasp. He resists fractionally when Zhou Yu pulls him closer. His expression shuts down, but his lips speak surrender and his eyes shine with the same longing he once turned on the qin. Zhuge Liang is ready to fly again.

Zhou Yu lets go of his hand and runs his fingers over the collar of Zhuge Liang's robe. He parts the silk, dips beneath the cloth to touch warm skin still damp from performance. Zhuge Liang's pulse is strong and steady. Zhou Yu strokes his fingers upwards over his throat, caresses the line of his jaw and the shape of his beard, then he rests his fingertips on the pout of Zhuge Liang's lips.

Zhuge Liang turns his head, and Zhou Yu's hand slips away. Uncertain whether that was a rejection, Zhou Yu seizes a handful of white silk and twists Zhuge Liang into his arms. He kisses him, and Zhuge Liang gasps. He struggles but he doesn't attempt to escape. Belatedly, Zhou Yu realises Zhuge Liang doesn't want to be kissed on the mouth. He tucks this observation away to examine later and turns his attention to Zhuge Liang's neck, licking behind his ear and into the upsweep of his hair.

A groan breaks from Zhuge Liang. He tilts his head, offering more of himself. Zhou Yu follows him down onto the floor. The qin is pushed aside.

Zhou Yu has no plan of attack. He follows his instinct, mapping his victories through the silk wrapped around Zhuge Liang's body. He feels the thrust of Zhuge Liang's cock, catches the scent and heat of him as he pulls aside the layers of his robes. Zhou Yu lowers his head and rests against Zhuge Liang's thighs.

Closing his eyes, Zhou Yu explores: his hands move over silk, catch on ribbon, rub across the scratch of embroidery. Beneath the cloth he feels Zhuge Liang's tension and need, the shift and play of muscles, the roughening of hair and the hardness of his erection.

Through the silk he tastes him, sweet-bitter and sharp. Zhuge Liang cants his hips, his breath steep and fractured. Zhou Yu wets the fabric with his mouth, shaping the silk to Zhuge Liang's cock. He leans over him, hands on Zhuge Liang's thighs to hold him down while with his lips he encourages Zhuge Liang to take flight.

Zhuge Liang surrenders to his orgasm with a discordant cry.

They lie together in silence, tangled in more than silk. Eventually Zhou Yu pulls away and lifts himself to his knees. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, not to rid himself of the taste, but to make sure that what happened was real. Convinced, he glances at Zhuge Liang and draws the outer robes back into place over his under-trousers.

There's a strange sense of dissatisfaction, of words left unsaid and songs gone unsung. Zhou Yu isn't sorry for what he did, but he thinks Zhuge Liang may regret it. Whatever the outcome, Zhou Yu is convinced of one thing. He nurses the thought, watching as Zhuge Liang sits up and tidies his hair, his robes. There's no tender look, no words of love. Zhou Yu knows he's the wrong man.

Calm again, blank again, Zhuge Liang gets to his feet and heads for the door.

Just before he walks away, Zhou Yu says, "You stayed for someone."

Zhuge Liang pauses at the threshold. He turns his head but doesn't look back. "Who?"

Zhou Yu says nothing.

The pause lengthens. Zhuge Liang shifts from one foot to the other. The silence seems too much of an answer for him, and with a soft, stifled noise he leaves the room.

Zhou Yu returns to his own qin and strokes a silvery river of sound from it. From here he can see the hawk's wing fan lying forgotten on the floor.

He smiles. Zhuge Liang will be back, and perhaps then he will be ready to admit the secrets of his closed heart.


End file.
